Scheisshaus Luck

by Pierre Berg

“I was in the HKB.”

  “I missed the whole thing, too. Never got a good look at the man’s face.” He turned to me with a smile. “I must’ve had a really silly look on my face when I saw you. Thought I was staring at a ghost.”

  “I wish I could disappear like a ghost.”

  “Why did you try to escape?”

  “I didn’t.”

  I recited the answer I had prepared that miserable Sunday. “I didn’t try to escape. I was being nosey, and when I looked into the warehouse, the wind slammed the door and I was locked in.”

  “To be honest, you were so muddy I’m not sure now what I wrote and God knows what that illiterate Kapo put in his report. It’s no wonder Hans screws up all the time; he’s been in jail almost all his life.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “Like most communists I was arrested when Hitler came to power. I met Hans in prison.”

  “Why is he such a prick?”

  “Because he’s a thief and murderer. How did you come to speak such fluent German?”

  I couldn’t believe that I was having a social hour with this man.

  “I spent a few vacations in Berlin.”

  This really interested him. “Which area?”

  “Charlottenburg at the Litzensee.”

  “Your father must be a rich bastard.”

  “Some of his friends are.”

  “I’m from Wedding.”

  The Wedding district of Berlin was a working-poor ghetto and a hot bed of communism. There had been years of vicious street-fighting and gun battles between the communists and the brown shirts of the fledgling Nazi Party.

  “How many languages do you speak?” he asked.

  “Four, and I understand a few more.”

  “You’re lucky. I can barely speak mine.” He stood up. “Get to work, and stay away from Hans or we’ll both be swinging.”

  I pulled up my pants and followed the Vorarbeiter. He eyed me.

  “Kid, nothing is going to unhang that poor bastard now. Understand?”

  I nodded. I understood. In the life I had known before I might have confessed and restored that poor man’s name, but in this world that would have served no purpose.

  CHAPTER 15

  Reestablishing contact with Hubert came when life in Monowitz was threatening to bury me. I had been there for nine months and there was nothing I looked forward to anymore. When I was digging a trench not a thought entered my mind. I was an automaton.

  I had succumbed to the Nazis’ desired condition of a slave, a brain-dead machine working without question, detached from all needs except for those that would raise me from bed and send me goose-stepping out the gate. I was aware what was happening to me and didn’t like it; there was nothing I could do about it.

  I was a voyeur in my own nightmare. The only thing reminding me that I was still human was Hubert—his wave as we lined up in the morning, his nod as he shuffled back into his Block at night, his occasional smile. It’s amazing how the smallest gestures of camara-derie can resuscitate a depleted soul. There would be times—few and far between—after evening rations that we would meet behind the Blocks to ensure that the other wasn’t ready for a ride to Birkenau. We would share rumors on the Allied push, discuss SS activity in the camps, and bitch about what scumbags our Kapos were. We’d always finish with speculations on the welfare and whereabouts of friends and inflated tales of past female conquests. Those nights I would have the most wonderful sleep.

  There were a handful of Orthodox Jews in my Block. Since their beards and payos (side curls) were long gone, the only reason I knew they were Orthodox was that they would sneak away to pray each morning and nearly every evening during the chaotic distribution of rations. Out of sight of the Stubendienst, they would sway back and forth facing the eastern corner of the Block. I was certain it was an abridged version of their prayers because they didn’t last more than a couple minutes. If caught practicing their religion, they would all be whipped—a high price to pay for a few words to a God who had apparently fallen asleep at the helm.

  The Jehovah’s Witnesses held prayer meetings behind the Blocks at night. When I first stumbled on one of their meetings, I was baffled and curious. What were these men whispering about in the shadows? Planning an escape, organizing a resistance group?

  The Häftling who explained to me that it was only die Bibelforscher had a good laugh when I told him what I thought they were up to.

  A few weeks after the young woman’s suicide, I was emptying a piss pail on a moonless night when I spotted a prayer meeting. I felt guilty that I hadn’t memorized her number, but I was pretty certain that they had heard what had happened and didn’t need any of my ugly details.

  One September morning the Orthodox Jews in my Block stayed in prayer a little longer and didn’t get in line for bread after they were finished. During our lunch break at the plant, two Jews in my Kommando refused their soup, explaining that it was their High Holy Day, Yom Kippur. Amazed, I stared at them. It’s foolhardy and counterproductive to your survival is what I wanted to say, but I kept my mouth shut. What was the point? I thought about the Orthodox Jews in my Block. Why the hell couldn’t they have observed their holy day by giving their unwanted bread to a starving atheist like me?

  Once the evening count was over I hurried to Hubert’s Block to make sure he wasn’t refusing his soup.

  “I don’t give a shit,” he told me. “I’ve been starving long enough. The way I figure it, I have credit coming for the rest of my life.”

  I was thankful that Hubert was smart enough not to be a slave to his religion. Why? The next morning a couple of yellow triangles in my Block didn’t get out of their bunks, and that evening we carried an unusually high number of corpses back.

  Since I was among those in my Block who had survived the longest, I was often able to nab the choice chores. This had very little to do with seniority. We “old timers” knew how things in the camp were run and what was expected from us, and no screw ups meant the Stubendienst and Blockälteste were secure in their posts.

  The morning chores were mopping and sweeping the Block and ensuring that the beds were properly made. Each Häftling was responsible for making his bed, but one Häftling was in charge of seeing that the bunks would pass the sporadic SS inspections. The SS had ludicrously stringent rules on how the beds should appear.

  The Häftling assigned to create these masterpieces would use two wooden planks that looked like oversized trowels to iron the wrinkles or creases from the blankets. Then he would have to position all the pillows so the SS officer could look down the row of bunks and see that all the pillows were aligned. If our beds couldn’t make “the god with a moustache” happy, everyone in the Block would go hungry that night.

  Evening chores included washing the Block’ s three or four thirteen-gallon soup containers. This was the most treasured task.

  Where most other chores paid with an extra half ladle of soup, the Häftlinge who washed the soup containers had the right to whatever remained in the bottoms and clung to the sides. Up to four ladles of soup would be left in those barrels, and there was an unquenchable demand for it on the camp’s black market.

  Another evening chore was doing a stint as night watchman. It took a good deal of fortitude and endurance to stay awake for that two-hour shift after twelve hours of labor, but the loss of sleep got you a full ladle of soup.

  When I was the night watchman, I sat underneath the night-light, where I had a good view of the door and the night watchman’s clock hanging on a bedpost. I was also within earshot of the men filling the piss pail. In our Block there had been many fights over who would be the one to empty that pail. Many times I took it out myself to ensure quiet during my shift. Peace would be a better word—the Block was never quiet. When everyone was awake, there was coughing and spitting and swearing and arguments, and snoring and pitiful moans when they slept.

  One night I heard men swearing in French outside the Block. I went t
o investigate and found two men scratching, biting, and clawing each other by the latrine. They were enraged beasts, and I had difficulty separating them. One brawler was a Parisian and the other had a southern French accent. They were real Muselmänner and had spent what little strength they had in their fight. On hands and knees, their chests heaving for air, they sobbed like children. The fight had been ignited by a culinary difference of opinion. The Parisian preferred to cook with butter while the southerner swore by olive oil. I stared at the sad fools and wondered if they realized that they would never taste food cooked in either fat ever again.

  Another evening, I noticed that the night watchman’s clock was gone. My heart stopped. How did it disappear right from under my nose? Did someone steal it when I emptied the piss pail? Had I fallen asleep? Regardless, I absolutely had to find it before the Blockälteste woke. The clock was his prized possession. Every morning he locked it up in his makeshift quarters. If I didn’t find it, I might as well count my bones.

  Like a man possessed, I scurried from one end of the Block to the other. I tiptoed up and down the rows of bunks, hoping to hear it. It had to be in the Block since no one had gone outside. Finally, my ears caught a muffled ticking. I was ecstatic and at the same time boiling mad. The thief was going to pay for this. I stole up, then unclenched my fists. The clock was in the Stubendienst’s bunk.

  There was nothing I could do to that snoring pig. He must have taken it to show the Blockälteste that I was incompetent, so that one of his buddies could have my job. You’re not going to make me look like a fool. Gingerly I lifted his pillow, retrieved the clock, and hung it back in its place.

  While I was in line for my bread the next morning, the Stubendienst smugly asked if I had slept well.

  “Oh, very well, thank you,” I smiled.

  “Slept during your watch?”

  “Oh, I never sleep then.”

  “Then how could I’ve taken the clock?”

  I pretended to be astonished. “What clock? Nobody could’ve taken it since it was there this morning.”

  “You took it out from under my pillow.”

  “Pillow? I would never dare do that. You must have dreamt it,”

  I said, staring at him innocently. He threw me an incredulous look and walked away.

  After that episode I applied for a different chore, washing the Blockälteste’s laundry. I had a cordial relationship with Wilhelm, whose dignified air clashed with the green color of his triangle. He had been imprisoned for embezzling funds to pay for his mistress’s lavish lifestyle. He was still grieving for his only son, who had died in the battle of Stalingrad and hadn’t ever visited his father in prison. Wilhelm enjoyed practicing his knowledge of foreign languages with me and seemed to treat me better than most. Washing his laundry got me access to soap and warm water in the shower room, some extra food, and a bed of my own whenever possible.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  As I was licking my bowl clean of the tasteless evening soup, I noticed a bored SS officer standing just inside the doorway. Wilhelm yelled orders for us to undress. It was a “selection.” We were hustled into one corner, and the boche handed out the green cards that we had filled out on our arrival. One by one we filed past the Nazi.

  He took my card, looked me up and down, then examined my back-side. Why was he dragging this out? I’m no Muselmann. I just turned nineteen. On September twenty-sixth, to be exact.

  “Der Bengel ist noch ganz kräftig” (The rascal is still strong), Wilhelm said.

  I turned around. The SS officer gave me another look, then shrugged indifferently. He took my card out of his pocket and put it on the table with the others. “We’ll wait until next time,” he told Wilhelm.

  I rejoined my companions on rubbery legs. I ducked the reaper again. But did I have any real reason to be thankful? With a frigid winter almost on top of us, there was no possibility of putting on weight and regaining strength before the next SS officer looked me over. I was a condemned man who had been given only a short reprieve. If my “selection” was inevitable, then wouldn’t it be better to get it over with than endure another month or two of pain and suffering before they pulled my card?

  A few days later they rounded up the “selected.” Dressed only in their tattered shirts, the chosen from the Blocks piled into the back of a truck. They had been told the same old lie—“You’re being taken to a rest camp to recover”—even though the Nazis knew that every “selected” Häftlinge was well aware of the truck’s destination.

  They weren’t going to take a chance of anything disrupting the steady flow of traffic into their gas chambers. Sitting on the truck bed, silent and shivering, most of the men didn’t care anymore what was going to happen to them.

  “Don’t worry!” a Kapo yelled as the truck pulled away. “Soon you’ll be warm, even too warm!”

  From that moment I was determined to do whatever I had to do to make sure my card wouldn’t end up in that officer’s pocket again. My bones weren’t going to stoke their fires. And, I fantasized, if my goose was cooked, then I would make sure one of those SS pricks joined me.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  In the bunk below me slept Moishe, a yellow triangle from Yugosla-via who had been scooped up by the fascist Croatian militia. He was in his twenties with the face of an adolescent and was a big shot in the camp’s black market, thanks to his connections with Häftlinge in the Canada Kommando. His cohorts called him Moi. Because of his salesmen in Kommandos that worked inside the plant buildings, Moi was profiting handsomely from the civilian employees. He was also the Stubendienst’s assistant. The Stubendienst’ s cut insured his eyes were closed to the steady flow of visitors Moi had every night, since Häftlinge weren’t supposed to enter other Blocks.

  Word passed that we would be receiving new shirts. We were supposed to exchange shirts every month, but were lucky if we got fresh ones every three months. My Block was in a mild state of excitement. The exchange was a lottery. This late in the year, those trading in their heavy wool shirts stood to lose badly and those with light, cotton shirts had everything to gain. The unfortunate Häftling who had had his shirt stolen would simply be passed over. Shirts were a much sought after commodity on the camp’s black market.

  One could exchange a good shirt for an old, mended one and a loaf of bread with a Polish civilian factory worker because they had difficulty getting any clothing.

  After receiving my new shirt, a wool one, I went to my bed to put my cap under my pillow, as I did every evening before eating.

  To my astonishment, I found a roll of bills lying there. Someone must have put it there thinking it was Moishe’s bed. My heart pounded with excitement. I looked about. No one was paying any attention to me. I thrust the wad into my shoe. Not wanting any evidence that I had been to my bed, I stuffed my cap into my pocket and slipped into the soup line. Ordinarily I would have checked the levels of the barrels. You wanted to step up when the barrel was almost empty because you stood a greater chance of getting a potato or chunk of cabbage. That night I had only one thought—getting out of the barracks as fast as possible so I could count my loot.

  Somebody’s god continued to send good fortune the wrong way because I ended up with a full ladle of thick soup as well.

  After eating, I ducked behind the Block and counted the money.

  I was holding 580 marks, a treasure that could change my fate. But there were problems. How was I going to change five one-hundred mark bills? Where would I hide the money? If caught with such a large sum, it was the Stehbunker for sure, and possibly the rope. I couldn’t keep the money with me. Moi or one of his cronies would surely search me.

  I ran to Hubert’s Block. He nearly fell over when he saw the bills. Hubert knew a pot-washer who was selling a ladle of thick soup for ten marks. I decided that for the next fifty-eight days Hubert and I were going to have full bellies. For the first time, I could truly envision a return trip to Nice.

  Moi was sitting on his bed buttering slices of brea
d when I returned. Obviously, he wasn’t aware of the screw-up yet. I stretched out on my bed, letting my legs hang down on either side. For 580 marks, Moi must have sold an overcoat—and one in fine condition, at that. What would he do when he found out that the money had disappeared? I mused. No question he would come at me, but how?

  Like a sly fox or an enraged bear? I knew there was a chance he would send a crony to beat a confession out of me, but that would be his last resort. With no tracks leading to Hubert, if I played it right I could deflect all suspicion.

  A string of Moi’s furtive traders streamed in and out. “Moi?” a reedy voice called out in Yiddish from the Block entrance. “Wie bist do?” (Where are you?)

  “Komm hier,” Moishe ordered.

  A little Jewish fellow, slightly humpbacked and with the type of face the Nazis venomously caricaturized in Der Stürmer, hurried over. He sat down on the edge of Moishe’s bed. They began to talk in soft whispers, but their conversation was quickly punctured with Yiddish curses. The visitor got up and stared at my bed as I pretended to sleep. It was hard to keep a smile off my face. He started to slip his hand under my pillow when the curfew bell sounded, which gave me an excuse to wake. The little fellow scurried out of our Block.

  That night I visited the piss pail three times, and each time I returned I could tell my mattress had been searched. Moishe had been thorough. I don’t think he slept at all that night.

  Returning from the plant the next evening I discovered a neatly folded, red-and-white checkered shirt under my pillow. The shirt looked brand new and would have fetched a hefty sum from a civilian. Moi, that sly fox, sure set his trap with delicious bait. Obviously he figured I would store the shirt in the same spot I had hid the money. I left the shirt under my pillow and nonchalantly went to get my soup.

  While I ate I kept an eye on my bed, but no one approached it.

  Where was Moi? When my bowl was licked clean, I went looking for him. He was sitting on the steps of the Block, diligently cleaning his comfortable leather shoes. Why not have some fun with this schmuck, I thought, and headed into the latrine. Moishe followed at a distance. He sure figured me for an idiot. I sat in there as if I were constipated, and even pretended to sleep. It must have driven him crazy. I was struck with a masterstroke of an idea and quickly returned to the Block.